


Dick Grayson

by writingtheworks



Series: the c in DC stands for "cringey" [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-07 10:41:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 14,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19207714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingtheworks/pseuds/writingtheworks
Summary: Dick fics from my reader insert Tumblr days. Enjoy!





	1. Virtual Insanity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You, being the inventor of the team, create a training program that allows the team to face their darkest and deepest fears. Maybe you made the program a little too perfect

“I’ll test it first.” You said. Your fingers rapidly type at the holo-screen’s main console, the keyboard and screen casting a light glow of blue against your face. You can see the rest of the team mentally preparing themselves through the blue hologram. You meet eyes with Kaldur, who questions you both with his eyes and his voice, apprehensive,”Are you sure that the holo-room will be successful in it’s job? And are you sure that you want to be the first to test it?” **  
**

“I’m sure.” You confirm, sliding away the screens and pulling your gloves on a little tighter. You straighten up and the flock of young heroes gradually silence until your voice is the only one that can be heard. You raise your hands in surrender, displaying the [color] pads of your palms to everyone. You find making eye-contact with Dick is easiest, as being the center of attention has never been something you looked forward too, and he gives you an encouraging nod to begin.

“Alright, everyone. Today’s exercise is going to be a little… sensitive.” You began, coughing when your voice wasn’t loud enough and correcting your own volume. Dick gives another nod. You are reminded who you are speaking too; your friends, your family, and most importantly your team. You have nothing to be afraid of… yet.

“I’ve set up a new training program for the holo-virtual simulation room. And after a  _lot_ of research and time spent delving into Dr. Crane’s notes, I’ve figured out a way for all of us to face our fears—in a  _safe_ manner.” You see a few members shuffle their feet, expressions hardening in determination. M’Gann and Conner in particular appear to feel a combination of hesitation and courageousness.

“With M’Gann’s help, we’ve managed to download some useful information and set it up. You’ll enter the holo-room one at a time, and the program will recreate a scenario where you are forced to face one of your weaknesses. This is in order to improve your ability on the battlefield and blah, blah, blah.” You laughed, ”You get the point.”

“If there’s anyone who doesn’t want to do this, you can leave. But I advise that you stay.” Kaldur adds, and you give a nod of agreement. You smile when no one exits, ”You brave bastards. Well, I’ll go first just in case I messed up. M’Gann?”

M’Gann steps forward, and the group waits around the console while Dick, Kaldur, and M’Gann follow you up to the spectating room. After you give a few short instructions on how to disable the program just in case something goes wrong, M’Gann gently holds your temples as her eyes glow green. When you open your eyes and the color disappears from hers, she appears uncertain and possibly… sympathetic, ”Are you  _really_ sure you want to go first? I could always—”

You cut her off with a simple wave of your hand. M’gann sighs, murmurs something that distinctly involves the word _“stubborn”_ , and hovers her hand over the print on the second console. Dick smiles at you and raises his thumbs, ”You’ll do great, babe. I bet it works perfectly. After all, you designed it.”

Kaldur’ahm hums in agreement, then gives his nod of approval and unlocks the training room door. When it opens you can see nothing but pitch darkness. It unnerves you as you suddenly realize just what you’re doing, but the feeling is instantly covered up by a brave face. You flash the trio a smile, Dick in particular, and before you can back out of your own creation you are locked inside it.

The training room isn’t that large when the lights are on, maybe as about the size of a small high-school cafeteria, but the darkness makes it go on forever. In addition to the training room’s many devices that make the simulation seem more real—treadmill flooring so you could walk forever in any direction, robots and dummies to act as people with programmed voices, holographic expansive paneling that could come off of the walls and display any scenery—but M’Gann had also looked into your mind, feeding the system and altering your thoughts so every machine was a person and the rubber flooring was thick grass.

It feels as if a heavy sheet had set around your mind when you enter the training room.

You walk deeper into the darkness, extending your arms to feel around for anything. You feel something soft as your ears begin to ring, the blackness blanketing your form slowly fading, transitioning in a video-game styled manner. You find your arm brushing someone else’s as you climb a hill. There’s a massive bouquet of flowers under his other arm. The simulation is so realistic that you can even smell the lilies.

Your breath hitches when Dick smiles forward, chuckling under his breath. You don’t know what to say, unsure how the program will respond—how your own  _mind_ will respond. It’s supposed to attune to your worst fears. Your stomach churns. If this involves Dick, then maybe you  _had_ overestimated yourself. Your mind races and grapples at any theories or predictions of what will occur in the next few seconds, anything at all, from Dick’s murder to him never knowing you at all, but then you immediately understand when you call his name, ”Dick?”

He doesn’t even blink. He doesn’t register that you’re there. He just keeps walking forward, almost bouncing to try and keep himself from sprinting up the grassy hill. Dick glances at the flowers, and something in his eyes brightens when laughter echoes over at the hill’s peak.

“There you are!” Zatanna greets, giggling.

Dick flushes and grins, unveiling the bouquet to her and hastily stepping before her. You are left a few feet behind the pair— _the pair_ —as you take in the rush of information. Dick presses the assemblage of flowers into Zatanna’s hands, ”I’m so sorry I’m late, Z. I had to pick up something first.”

She hugs the flowers to her chest, breathing them in a blushing, heavily. Zatanna turns up her chin toward his,”You’re so sweet Dick. Really, you—you spoil me so much and I only got you a small gift…” She trailed off, slouching. You hate how you wince and take a step backward when he leans down and captures her lips in his.

When they break away, Dick’s grin is so large and euphoric you imagine his cheeks are aching with his mirth and  _love_. He wraps his arm around her waist,”You deserve the best,” He nuzzles his nose against her cheek, making her beam and rub back. He leans in to whisper in her ear, ”Happy Valentine’s Day to my best girl.”

 _It’s just a simulation_. You hiss internally, urging yourself to turn around or look away. But you  _want_ to see what’s going to happen next. You want to see for some unholy reason. You want to face it. _Just a simulation…_

“Hey, Dick?” Zatanna asks softly when they break apart form another kiss. Dick responds by attentively staring at her, in the same way he listens when you speak, and Zatanna gently places her hands on his chest, ”I know that you’re… used to celebrating with… with  _Y/N_ , but I want you to know that it’s okay for you to miss her.”

Your chest aches uncomfortably at the sound of your own name, pulsing, and bleeding inside your chest. It’s starting to hurt to breathe. What hurts more is Dick’s reaction.

He scoffs, shaking his head.”I don’t love her Zatanna. I never did.” He lays his hand on her arm as your heart and eyes sting, ”I love  _you_.”

The scene fades to black just as tears begin to force their way to the top, building, and building beneath your irises until you are left alone in the dark once more. The ball in your throat has grown so thick you can’t even breath. Your heart is trapped inside your ribcage, desperately scratching at your ribs in order to escape the needles and knives driving into your skin from within. It cracks before it can succeed, then promptly shatters when you hear his voice again. _I never loved her._

After a few moments of waiting, a spark of hopelessness lights inside your chest, ”Guys?”

No one responds. You try a second time. A resounding  _BOOM_ shakes the training room, and light floods over your back. The door had flown off its hinges and skidded across the rubber flooring. Dick stands in the center of the doorway, creating a long shadow that stretches all the way to you.

“Oh, baby.” He sighs.

_

“Tim’s working out the kinks,” Dick says softly, and you hear the fabric of his shirt hit the floor, ”Apparently you had it on ultra hard mode.”

“Yea—Yeah, I figured.” You responded shakily.

Dick’s hand carefully, cautiously, sweetly layers over your hip as he slips into bed beside you. His skin is hot with nervousness and his touch is pure passion and compassion combined. Dick aches with yearning, his only wish being holding you tight and curing your woes. He could have taken a guess in regards to what your worst fear would be; something involving him, but when this thought surfaced he always imagined that meant his death. He tried not to consider this too much for obvious reasons. But now understanding, knowing a part of you that has created a fissure from the surface of your personality all the way down to your foundation, he feels closer to you than ever. You most definitely need that closeness.

His lips form a pattern on your shoulder blade, persistent in their method of curing and comforting you. Dick tries to smile against your skin, the way he knows you like, but your muscles are still taut with confliction and flashbacks. He finds his lips wandering from its origin, up your neck, and to your ear, and then widely expanding to your upper arm, elbow, and wrist. You’re smiling lightly by the time he reaches your hand and wraps his long fingers through yours, but Dick knows that his goal hasn’t been reached. The smile does not shine in your eyes.

Dick dips beneath your arm, and you twist so that you’re eye to eye. He considers himself, he considers the words, feeling their weight on his tongue and in the back of his throat. Instead, he says nothing. He translates the words with his kiss, lips planted against yours, deepening only when he’s about to pull away. Dick sighs through his nose when your fingers rise to run down his jaw, his eyelashes fluttering with the affection.

You stare at him, the steadiness of your gaze enduring the combat it faces against’s Dicks, molding and melting fluidly together in a dance of close bodies and closer hearts. And still, he says nothing. He says nothing when he lays his ear against your heart, when he wraps his arms around your waist, when the bed dips with the weight of his adoration and endless unvoiced apologies.

He says nothing, but you feel him mouth it against your heart. You thread your fingers through his hair and say nothing. But you both know.


	2. Hey, Mom

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your voice sounds an awful lot like his mother’s.

It’s just as the sun breaches the horizon over the North Atlantic Ocean, like a giant blazing sunflower blossoming at the edge of Happy Harbour, does the hum of life return to the interior of Mount Justice. The flow starts steadily. First, bare feet hardened by years of running on dirt and Istrian stone make their way into the kitchen. Food is produced from the fridge. As the ingredients are mixed and the air fills with flavor, a soft song that could only be produced by the daughter of Aphrodite carries through the echoing halls, and the power every note holds draws sleeping team members from their rest.

The sound wakes Garfield Logan from a fitful rest, and the second it reaches his ears his body relaxes and he is taken away to another world; a world with his mother Marie, singing an African song to the animals as she fed them. He tosses back his covers and leaps down the hall to find the source of the sound.

Zatanna Zatara’s nose rises from a book of spells, and her ancient murmurings cease. For a moment she is suspended in time. Her father is there, humming and striding about as he got ready for some event Zatanna couldn’t remember. She smiles as she shuts the book, closing her door behind her.

Kaldur’ pauses his training session abruptly.  _Mother?_  He asks himself as the punching bag swings with his dying throws. It takes him another minute of listening to comprehend the singer, and it is not Sha'lain'a, as much as it seems to  _sound_ like her. He can feel her nails gently rolling down his scalp, and the water enveloping him. He remembers how they would sit in the shallower waters and stare up at the sun before he heads for the kitchen.

Wally West skids into the lounge room, halting to a stop and searching the area. ”Mom?” He calls out.

You raised your hand and waved to Wally, the golden jewelry on your arms and wrists catching on the kitchen light. The smile you flash is beautiful, just like every other smile you had ever given anyone. The third Wondergirl beckoned Wally into the kitchen. He isn’t surprised to see the short but elegant drapes of a Amazonian princess—you always seemed to wear your royal robes even outside Themyscira—but rather he’s surprised to see you.

“Greetings, Wally!” You inclined your head toward a pair of massive plates of prepared waffles and pancakes. Assuming the other is for Bart, Wally embarrassedly takes one and tries to forget about his own introduction.”Thanks.” He smiled awkwardly. With the grace of a princess, you nodded back, ”You’re welcome.”

You return to singing as the room is slowly conquered by team’s members, old and new. Damian Wayne leaps up onto the counter from the opposite side and glares at you, perched there like a pissed-off cat, ”Stop singing,  _Amazonian_.”

“Forget about him, Y/N. He’s just whiny because you sound like Talia and he misses his mommy,” Tim chimes, shaking his head at the present Robin, ”Keep singing. You sound great.”

Before the two can enter a scuffle—clearly indicated by the angry reddening of Damian’s face—you halt both with nothing but one word; “ _Stop_.”

Being the daughter of Aphrodite and a lifelong student of Diana Prince, you had gained and learned to use a very valuable weapon. Charmspeak allowed everyone to listen to you if that push was needed, and more often than not you found yourself using it to calm Tim and Damian instead of criminals. Regardless, it works, as Tim moves around you to get his food and Damian clicks his tongue. That must be how everyone was awoken, because your song can often influence people without their knowledge.

“Hey, ma.” Garfield waves tiredly. He rubs at one of his eyes and you softly pet his hair, ”Goodmorning, Gar.” You chimed, offering him his plate of food.

The cycle continues, and you smile a little brighter every time another member refers to you as “mother.” The only one who doesn’t is the very last. His strong arms slip around your waist and his chin nestles into the cranny between your shoulder and neck. You fold your hands over Dick Grayson’s and tilt your head back to rest your cheek against his.

“Hi there,” Dick murmured into your shoulder. You giggled when he kissed your jaw, touching his cheek from your place in front of him. ”Is there an explanation for why everyone is calling you  _“mom”_ , or…?”

“Not really, no. Wally just kind of…” You trailed off.

Abruptly, Wally approaches and smacks Dick’s butt. He grins mischievously, ”Hi daddy!”

Dick whirls around and begins to chase after the speedster, cursing and yelling like a sailor ( _“She doesn’t know what that means! Don’t call me that!”_ ). You raise an eyebrow at M’gann, who is sleepily slouched against the counter, ”Why did he call Nightwing _“daddy”._..?”

M’gann only sighs, shakes her head, and returns to her food.


	3. In The Beginning and Until The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin and Sparrow. The Flying Graysons and The Tiny Tumbler. Even if it seems like destiny, it’s never going to work out for Dick Grayson.

Dick feels the utter weightlessness. Everything goes by too fast for him to catch everything, and for the flash of a second where he is suspended in air he feels something emerge from deep within his heart. He hears his mother call his name, say, _”Oh, Richard, you look like a Robin on that trapeze.”_  There’s a weight on his shoulder, a good, comforting weight; the phantom touch of his father’s hand greeting him. He feels home in the air, even as he’s rapidly falling toward the Earth. He feels free. There is nothing to ground him or chain him down. Dick Grayson feels free in the air, and he hopes his parent’s felt the same way when the wire broke. **  
**

But then it all stops and he is greeted by immense pain. He feels gravity’s grip tighten around his ankles and try to pull him downward, but his anchor holds tight around his arm, the kevlar and mesh combination of the glove that caught him digging through his costume. With a grunt, you pull Dick up and over the ledge. You collapse in a tangled mess of silk-cape and heavy breathing. When he was pushed off the building he had instantly looked to you before he fell. You had been what felt like a forever away, so you must have sprinted to save him. Even if you would do that with anyone, even a monster like the Joker or someone you know you couldn’t catch like Bruce, he feels his heart beat wildly at your daring act of instant righteousness… for _him_.

He could blame the muscle in his chest, excuse its fast pace for his near-death experience, but he knows that it’s  _you_. You are the cause of his sloppiness.  _A distraction_ , Bruce would deem you.

Dick manages a shaky, ashamedly exhilarated breath—he has always liked  _falling_ more than  _flying_ —and the redness of his face deepens. You settled your hand on his arm and looked into his eyes, ”Are you alright, Dick?” You whispered. Your eyes were wild with fright at almost losing him. He feels the world come to a stop as your words drift in and out of his ears, your touch making his skin pleasantly hum. It’s a beautiful contrast to the searing pain of his arm; it’s been dislocated.

“Fine.” Dick chokes out when your hand slides down to clutch his. His voice cracks in that stupid prepubescent way that he hates. It’s bad enough that the sound reminds Two-Face and Penguin that he’s just a kid, but  _you_ have to hear it too. You may be only a year older than him, but the strength of your maturity and experience has him caught up in his own feet too many times. ”I’m fine,  _Sparrow_ , don’t worry about me.” Dick rushed.

You took the hand holding his and used it to hoist him upward. In your haste to catch him you had failed your original objective: arrest the Riddler. But it seems Bruce did not, as by the time you release Dick you hear the solid sound of protective gear hitting bone. The Batman turns away from an unconscious purple and green, black and blue Edward Nygma, and nods at you. You and Dick nod back in affirmation.

Bruce ties up Riddler and hefts him over his shoulder, and you watch the Dark Knight disappear over the building’s edge, his grappling line whizzing on his way to the Batmobile’s parking place. You give Dick one more once-over, and he’s reminded he’s wearing  _green_ ,  _scaled_ ** _undies_** right now. Definitely not the most flattering costume choice, especially if he’ll be working with you from now on.

_

Dick’s heart stutters the moment he see’s the colors. He breathes in the smell of fresh hay for the elephants, and the deeper he enters the area the stronger the smell of concessions gets. Animals roar and sniff at him as he passes the enclosures, emblazoned with bright colors and the logo he used to draw in his notebook at school;  _Haly’s Circus_  envelopes Dick Grayson and works its way through the years of  _Batman, Robin_ , and  _Nightwing._  He’s left as the last  _Flying Grayson_  again, and that’s all he could ever want.

The show doesn’t start for another half-hour or so, but that’s what he’s counting on. A unicyclist wheels past him at top speed, juggling unopened beer-bottles a—for once—sober Harry the clown is hollerin’ and screamin’ after the juggler, and Dick laughs a little to himself. Mister Haly waves at him from a barrel beside the elephant’s pen. He grins and watches as Eleanor, the old elephant that Dick used to wash when he was a boy, peeks over Haly’s shoulder and peers at his cards and then proceeds to help Joey the security guard cheat.  _God, I love that elephant,_  Dick thought as he waved back.

Behind the massive Big-Top set up in the center of Gotham’s Bringer Park is a smaller tent as a back-stage for private shows and the like. His pace picks up when he looks at the time; she should be there right now.

He hears her singing before he sees her. Brushing back the curtain of the tent, he watches a shadow swoop overhead and follows it to the center of the fairly large room with a huge grin. Swinging from two long strings of silks or aerial fabrics, Y/N L/N curves and arcs through the air, singing and giggling and making Dick’s heart hurt.

The aerial acrobat catches his eyes, hooking her arm around one of her ropes and waving at him tightly, ”Hey, bird-boy!” You grinned. ”Give me a sec and I’ll be right down.”

With a powerful and graceful flourish, you swung your legs and gently lowered yourself to the ground. The action makes Dick feel like his muscles are trying to wring the love out of his heart, knowing that it’s not going to do him anything good, but it’s just too strong to seep out. The moment your feet hit the floor your take off running, leaping from the ground and wrapping your arms around his neck. Dick catches you by reflex and the embrace immediately relaxes him. He binds your body against his.

You breath in his scent of kevlar and something cologne-y. It makes you think of all those years as  _Sparrow_. But those days are over and over for good; you decided that after one-too-many losses, and then your adoptive father, Mister Haly, informing you that the circus you had been raised in was dying. _The Flying Graysons_  had been their best act but were long gone, and when you were called the  _Tiny Tumbler_ you were… well, tiny, but that didn’t mean you could grow up and become something better. Haly swears up and down that ever since you joined, tickets have been selling like mad. You believe him… but only a little bit.

“I’ve missed you,” Your muffled voice murmured into his jacket. You gave him a tight squeeze, ” _So_  much.”

The importance that weighed on these words seemed unknown to you, but clear to Dick; by the time you part his face is steaming. He utters a soft, ”I missed you too, Y/N.”

Coughing, Dick’s fingers slip off your shoulders and rest uncomfortably at his sides. You take note of how one of his hands is held behind his back, but don’t comment. Instead, you smiled brightly and looked the rest of him over,”We missed you here at the circus. Pops keeps tellin’ me to try and get you to rejoin.” You chuckled a little sadly, knowing that could never be a reality.

Dick flashed an apologetic smile and looked anywhere but your face, ”Yeah… Every time we talk he’s always asking me. But you know I can’t.”

You gave a nod, and dismissed the subject as soon as you remembered. Taking Dick’s hands, you lit up, ”Anyway, I called you here for a reason tonight. I wanted you to hear it from me before you heard it from anyone else, but…” You trailed your gaze away from his, missing the way he holds your hands a little tighter.

“I, um…” You cleared your throat and steadied your gaze. The way Dick is listening, staring back and nodding encouragingly, makes it so much easier to speak. That’s always how it’s been with him, and you mentally thank his mother and father for creating such an amazing man. Before you can hold back, you blurted, ”I’m—I’m  _pregnant_.”

Dick’s heart drops. But his smile raises, perfectly faux and perfectly crafted in the way he had been taught. He throws in a gasp and an even tighter hug then before, ”Birdie, I’m so happy for you!” He bursts, even if the exact opposite feeling is churning regretfully in his stomach. 

Dick had known about your relationship with the show’s lion tamer whom everyone called Leo even if his name was Leonard. He didn’t that—or at least he hoped—that it wasn’t as serious as this. But it’s not anger or even sadness filling him like rain floods a city, but regret. Why couldn’t he just  _tell_ you? Why was the one thing that Dick couldn’t face, of all things, you? He was brave. Brave was almost literally in his job description, so why couldn’t he just show some courage and bravely tell you everything? Pff. Like that was ever an option.

You didn’t love Dick Grayson. You never will in the way that he does. Dick doesn’t stay awake all night guarding your apartment when your life was threatened just because you’re  _friends_ ; Dick didn’t go out of his way to get someone to check that your net was secure every night for no reason; Dick didn’t get you the rose clutched behind his back and breaking between his fingers because you were childhood companions… because he was in love with you. And it was horribly, painfully, terribly obvious in the way that everyone knew. One day, Dick’s sure that you’ll finally realize it too.

Before you can tell him whatever details you know, Haly pokes his head into the tent and juts his thumb behind him, ”Dicky, if you wanna get a good seat you should probably get out there now.” Haly suggested. Before he left, he raised his eyebrows at Dick once and then swiftly escaped, ”Put on a good show tonight, birdy. It’s gonna be your last before you’re takin’ a maternity leave.”

“I’ll call you.” You gently and giddily squeeze Dick’s biceps. ”Now he’s right! Go on out there and clap harder than you’ve ever clapped before! Tonight’s performance is dedicated to you.” You laughed.

Dick nods, smile loosening and cracking, ”I will, pretty bird. Be safe out there.”

“I could tell you the same thing.” You grinned, before releasing him and attending to the call of your name. Dick watches you retreat to assist the ringmaster, your costume glittering under the light. He takes a broken but clearing breath and tells himself, even if he knows it will do nothing to douse his feelings, that your heart belongs to someone else.

When Dick Grayson leaves that tent, he leaves thousands of memories and a crushed rose in his wake.


	4. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone thinks about the future. Dick Grayson’s looks pretty bright.

“And what do you think your future wife’s gonna be like, Grayson?” You tease, your palm cupping your cheek and your head cocked to the side like a loaded gun. It’s fired right into Dick’s chest when you smile at him, and he actually feels the emotion clouding his thoughts get thicker. He feels the pink lens replace the dark one, letting the world be seen the way you make everything seem;  _beautiful_. Dick drowns in love and lets himself sink. He sinks, he falls, he tumbles and trips right at your feet. Where you pick him up, dust him off and tell him it’s okay.

Dick knew nothing about his future wife, like everyone else in the world. The only idea he had was the woman he had created in his head, along with the more handsome, nicer, stronger version of himself that he’d fantasized he would become. And that woman, with her ideal face and body shape and personality, that imaginary woman is somehow real and sitting in front of him. You are everything Dick’s been dreaming of since he first put on the green scaled undies. You’re his ideal, and he’s still in awe that you’re real.

You, with your flowers pressed between book pages and your cracked perfection. You, with your chest like a theater and your heart the pulsing song of a tragedy. Your curves, like a vengeful coiled snake, or the arch of a scythe. You, who would make a dictionary of words to describe how it feels to be so in love with him. You, the definition of perfection, that he still doesn’t believe is real.

He knows exactly what you imagine when you think “husband” and “wedding”. You probably started planning your wedding by the time you were seven. By ten, you’d have the time of the event and the location picked out. When you turned seventeen, you probably went out an choose a gown, just for fun. Your maid of honor and two of your bridesmaids are on speed-dial. And at all those ages, you knew you wanted a man who held your hand like it was the only one in the world. A person who wasn’t just there to fill the other side of the bed. A person who makes you feel like a princess but treats you like a queen.

If he’s being honest, he hasn’t even picked out a tux yet, never mind the colors or the cake. He has no clue what his wedding will look like. But he imagines his future wife will be a living promise. She’ll be hopeful, she’ll be colorful, she’ll be beautiful, she’ll be tasteful. So tasteful her walk will be champagne and Dick will get drunk with her every step. When the pastor asks him,  _”Will you take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?”_  Dick will answer so fast he’ll interrupt the poor officiant. But the pastor can’t blame him. Your first kiss was 6 years ago, and he’s been practicing his _“yes”_  for the past 2,165 days.

When people ask him about his future wedding, Dick doesn’t have a clue whereas you do. But when he’s asked about his future wife, he ends up talking enough to fill a trillion novels. Little things, like how she misses her (relative), smells of petrichor, and even the taste of her skin is sweet. Little things like how you love to laugh, and starts a fire within him that has yet to die.

He’s so lucky. You’ve only seen yourself in photos and reflections. You don’t catch the way your eyes light up when someone mentions one of your passions. You only view the smile that’s too awkward or a pimple on your chin. You don’t see the genuine grin conquer your expression when someone in the street compliments you. It’s near gut-wrenching, how you’ve never seen the parts of you that Dick finds so beautiful. He’s lucky he can see the little things.

Dick repeats the moment in his head sometimes. Just for fun, even though there’s no way that’s how it will go. He knows you’ll look beautiful in your dress, but knowing him, his tongue will fall out of his mouth and he’ll heart will jump out after it. He won’t be able to speak. Knowing Dick, the only thing he’ll be able to say is, _”You look hot.”_  But that’s not true. You’ll be divine, ravishing, enamoring, radiant. You’ll be ineffable.

So, basically, when Dick thinks of his future wife, of the girl he’s going to marry and grow old with… he thinks of you.

Your face reddens, and your hand falls from your face to sling over your folded arm against the booth’s table. It’s a stark contrast to the muted greys, silvers, blues, and jade’s that the diner is hued with. It’s a stormy afternoon, so you’re tucked into one of your sweaters as the sky paints your face grey. Your reflection in the glass beside you mirrors your flustered expression. You tilt your head again, this time to the other side, and inquire with a shy laugh,”Why are you staring at me, Dick?”

Dick blinks, registering that he’s practically drooling over his lunch as he stares at you. He slips into a more casual position, so flustered his face is angry at him for being so in love and red. The fibers of his skin tingle when you turn your head away shyly. Every sinew and tendon in his body sings when you gaze at him. Little hearts practically float from his mouth when he sighs, circling his head like a crown of enamorment. Dick stops swooning and answers,”I think she’s gonna be you.” He says.

“Huh?” You perk up, humming around a mouthful of food. Dick smiles, feet planted into the tile and stance firm. He finally regains his composure and becomes the slick man he’s always been,”You asked me what my future wife’s gonna be like,” Dick stirs his side-soup with his spoon, gazing down at the potatoes and the little bits of flavoring when he smoothly delivers,”And then I said I think she’s gonna be  _you_.”

You giggle, and the sound is so strong you nearly snort a piece of your food and inhale another. Quickly covering your mouth, you pale at the noise you just made. Meanwhile, Dick looks like he’s fallen in love all over again. You shake your head at him, taking your fork and delivering another bite to your mouth. After chewing, you raise an eyebrow at Dick,”I figured you’d say something like that.” With a smile.

Dick chuckles,”Am I that predictable?” He asks you. You look away, trying to avoid the truth… but everyone knows Dick’s a flirt. He also has a way with words that no one you’ve met has quite mastered. He compliments you every chance he gets, and you couldn’t have asked for a better boyfriend. With a shrug, you gently bump your leg against his under the table,”I’m not complaining.” Smirking, Dick swipes one of your fries off your plate and tosses it into his mouth. In the same motion, he entangles your legs beneath the table and winks at you,”Good. Because my predictable compliments are gonna keep coming, beautiful.”

When the bill is paid and your food is eaten, Dick scoops up your arm in his and you start to walk home. You conversation buzzes without words, flowing between the two of you in the form of actions. This is how most of your dates go. At first, you imagined something was wrong, since every time you were with him you had no idea what to talk about. Every time, every date, was just lying against one another and playing with the emotion in the air. The silence, as you now realize, was never uncomfortable. It was loving. And you suppose that’s why you and Dick work so well.

Heart’s a flutter, you take the shortcut under the bridge. He’s giggling for no reason and your steps are sloppy, and a girl on the sidewalk is glaring at you, but everything is okay. For once, the world isn’t in danger, another girl doesn’t threaten your relationship, no one’s dead. Dick starts telling a story about his time as Robin. You get distracted by the scar on his hand. Time is suspended in a manner like never before. It’s not like the feeling when you’re about to fall, or when something important happens. It feels like time has actually stopped, and you and Dick are the only ones capable of unpausing. It works.

_

You’re getting the same vibe from everyone; the  _tired_  infecting your family is not tied to hours of sleep or number of naps. It’s in every fiber of your being, weighing down your bones and aching your eyes. The caffeine is doing nothing, you’ve watched the progression of the coffee struggle affect how Tim moves over time. Everyone is exhausted, fatigued by life and Gotham’s struggles. But no one has suggested stopping, not one hand was raised to suggest a break.

There are three types when it comes to exhaustion. There’s the long-term, which mostly everyone has felt. The world has worn them down to the nubs of their dreams and the edge of their patience. Bruce and Tim have occupied this space the longest, but the others seem to gravitate in its direction. There’s  _tired_ , where there are bags under your eyes and you’re ready to kill someone to get sleep. This is Damian and Jason right now, who are bickering over what half of a candy bar they’re getting. Lastly, there’s  _sleepy_ , cutesy, rubbing your eyes with your sleeves type exhausted. There’s a subcategory that you and Dick fit into; you’re sleepy, in love, and leaning on each other, twisting back and forth between who’s holding the most weight.

You smile down at your phone, turning in your chair to view the man blearily examining his own device. Softly, as not to wake the bats or let the other’s in the cave hear you, you tell Dick, ”Baby, you don’t need to send me a good-morning text. I’m right next to you.” You laugh quietly. Dick’s chair travels across the console area and returns to your side. He takes your chin between his fingers and smooths a kiss against the hollow of your cheek, ”I don’t care. It’s the morning. And I know you love the sound of my texttone.”

As much as you love the sound your phone makes when Dick messages you—a bird tweeting a few chirps—it’s more the idea of him messaging you that makes you so giddy. The bird chirps and you lurch across the room to retrieve your phone, eyes and hopes alight. Those chirps are your alarm to get up in the morning, and they’re better than any sound you’ve ever heard. Other than Dick’s laugh, that is. You peer down at the message he’s sent you, and then the time.

_Good morning, sleepy-head ;D_

It’s 1:07 AM, and it’s a moonless night so it’s darker than usual. Dick lays his head in your neck, awkwardly entangling your chairs so he can be close to you. Sweetly, your fingers rise up behind you to comb through his hair. You’re all just waiting for something to happen. Plenty of your Rogue’s Gallery has dropped threats of returning or breaking from Arkham, so you’ve all been on guard. You’re lucky you have Dick and that Dick has you. You can nap on each other and Bruce won’t yell at you because he secretly thinks it’s really cute.

Dick’s wearing the shirt you got him for his birthday, the one with your superhero symbol on it. It smells like him now, and when you wear it no one notices it’s not yours so you wear it almost as much as he does. Now, you smooth your hand over the symbol and kiss his shoulder,”I’m going to go get some coffee. You want some?” Dick nods slowly and sleepily into your skin, "With extra—” You cut him off, knowing what he’s going to say, ”—sugar. I know, sweetheart.” You try not to move too much when you stand, and your hand carefully slides out of Dick’s grip as he grapples for your touch in his half-conscious state.

You return to the Batcave after making you and Dick another round of coffee. As you approach the chairs, you test the coffee to see if you put in the correct amount of sugar. Dick always likes it a certain way. When you find it tastes to what would be Dick’s liking, you set it on the table beside him. He’s gently snoring into his palm, his arm rested at an awkward angle and his position tight and uncomfortable. Easily, you fall back onto your chair and lay him out so he’s basically hugging you in his sleep. When he get’s comfortable, he murmurs your name in his sleep and drifts deeper into unconsciousness. Swiping the hair out of his eyes, you whisper, ” _Good morning to you too, baby_.”


	5. The Real Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Dick falls under one of Klarion’s spells, it’s up to sorceress (and love interest) Y/N L/N to save the day, and Bludhaven’s knight.

“It’s just as I feared,” You sighed, shoulders dropping with the weight of your new problem. The members of the Batfamily and the Young Justice team stare at you. When Zatanna could not figure out how Dick had suddenly fallen into what appeared to be a magical coma, or why, Tim had suggested calling you—a close,  _close_ friend of Dick’s, an on-and-off member of the team, and an expert in the magical arts.

“What?” Batman questioned tightly, taking a step forward to join your side. They currently had Dick under supervision (literally, Conner was in the corner), encased in a glass pod surrounded by medical machinery. It made him look like a sick and unused puppet, it’s strings tossed about around him. But still, it didn’t seem right; Dick’s face wasn’t pale, his body was weak—he didn’t appear to be in a coma, even if it hadn’t been 24 hours since he had gone under. If anything he looked better than normal. His hair fell perfectly around his face, his lips were plump like a ripe peach, ready to be plucked for harvest, and his skin was flushed a light, healthy pink. But if you turned your head a certain way it seemed that coma had begun to take from him, or maybe it was just your eyes playing tricks on you.

In reality, you knew better. Only  _you_ saw Dick the healthy way you were now, and your magical abilities would briefly allow you to see through the veil masking his illness. Regardless, it still worried you. Regardless, you knew why.

“This is going to sound stupid, but have you ever seen  _Snow White and The Seven Dwarves_?  _Sleeping Beauty_?” You questioned.

Zatanna’s expression dropped, ”Don’t tell me Klarion actually hit him with a  _sleeping curse_.”

“Sorry,” You bunched your lips to the side and looked over Dick. Briefly, you put a hand on the glass. Through it, you could feel the dull magic of his bloodline. Even if Dick didn’t know it or recognize it, the Grayson family always held important roles in the universe, whether it be Talons of the Court of Owls, or Robins of the Batfamily. Those futures all stirred in his blood, some dormant and others waiting to be awakened. If you focussed, his body seemed to be humming, and beneath that another thing was lashing out against those futures; the sleeping curse, like a lead blanket weighing his mind. Dick had a very powerful conscience. But this curse was like the ones of old; only “true loves kiss” could reawaken your beloved boy wonder, and you could only hope that it was your kiss that would save him.

“Wait, so Nightwing was hit with a sleeping curse—like the ones from the fairy tales? Where only—” Wally swallowed and looked at the women in the room that Dick had dated, and then landed on you again, ”— _true loves kiss_  can wake him up?”

You and Zatanna nodded together, and then she added, ”Sleeping Curses are one of the easiest ones to cast. In the old ages, some people would even pay witches and wizards to cast onto them so they could find their soulmate. Klarion must have shot Dick with one just to put him into a temporary coma so he could escape.”

“Well, what are we going to do then? Track down all of Nightwing’s exes and ask them to kiss him?” Artemis asked, pulling an odd face.

Wally shrugged, ”We’ve already got three in the room right now.”

Barbara shook her head, while Zatanna slapped Wally’s shoulder, ”Two. Nightwing and Y/N never dated.”

“Wait, really?” Bart chimed in. Conner stood up from the wall, ”I would have thought—what with the hugging and the hand-holding, and the flirting—” He trailed off.

Batman put a hand to your shoulder, calling your attention and thankfully silencing the subject. He tilted his head to the side with concealed concern. But you could feel the worry coming off of him in thick waves, unceasingly spreading to the other members of the group, even if they were unaware. ”Is there anything you can do?” He questioned seriously.

“There is a spell I can cast to find the object of Nightwing’s true affections,” You said. Then you glanced back at the team, ”But I will silence and privacy. It will take me a long time.”

“Take as long as you need,” Batman said. He gave the group a glance and they all dispersed, some glancing at you or Dick before they parted. Just before the doors closed behind Beast Boy, Batman nodded,”Thank you.”

You could only nod back. You could feel your heart in your throat the moment the doors closed. There was an actual spell to find this person, but… there was a chance you were that person, right? All those nights whispering sweet nothings into each other’s ears, hiding behind doors and sneaking into privacy together. With the danger of the Light still very near, Dick had wanted to stray as far as danger as he could, while still fighting the good fight. That meant keeping your relationship a secret from the team, from everyone. This secrecy often meant you and Dick were forced to be apart and act only as friends, and Dick was such an amazing actor it was hard to tell when he was lying or not. Truly something like this, even as indulgent as it was, could answer all of your questions…

Guiltily, you looked from the door down to Dick. His image flickered briefly once more, from a pale and frail man to a healthy one, and you couldn’t help but ask yourself if everyone saw the same image. But something about the way they stared at him said everything you needed to know; if the whole team was as worried as they were, Dick must look like a mess. Then why would that magic make him appear so healthy to you?

You pressed the button that unlocked the pod’s glass, and it opened with a soft hiss and folded back into the bed’s inner workings. Dick’s black and blue uniform had been traded for the med-bay uniform, which didn’t suit him in the slightest, but that magical, invisible mist around him made it all feel like he was wearing a dashing suit instead of a hospital gown. You shook off the feeling and tentatively reached for Dick’s hand. You could  _try_ … and if he didn’t leap back to life, then you’d cast the spell and move on… Yeah, that’s what you’d do.

You felt his pulse beating in time with the heart monitor, a steady, happy song that sung at your tender touch. In the mechanical silence, you reached out magically and felt Dick’s spirit, stirring in his chest and searching for a way around the curse’s barricade. You inhaled the scent of antiseptic and exhaled whatever concerns were seeping into your skin. Then, you brushed the black locks from Dick’s face (finding it damp with the sweat of his internal battles), and captured his lips in a brief kiss.

Like a wildfire, the little magical energy you had pressed into the kiss traveled down to the curse. As soon as the wisp of [color] made contact with the bitter red energy, Dick’s eyes were open and he was eagerly kissing back, like he had been pulling at the barricade in his mind only for it to suddenly burst apart. You find your hands cupping Dick’s neck. His energy and joviality is back to maximum, as when your hands make contact with his skin, he is lifting you off the floor and pulling a giggling you into the pod.

You push yourself off of Dick and gasp for air, his chest rising and dipping heavily with his own sharp intakes of breath. It is hard not to smile when Dick does. It’s harder not to blush when he cups your face and cards his fingers through your hair, pushing every strand away from your eyes so your full visage was in view, so he could admire it like he admired the moon. Dick breathed happily, ”My favorite face to wake up to.”

“Klarion hit you with a sleeping curse,” you informed. It was almost too easy to indulge yourself in that one little moment, where others weren’t watching and enemies weren’t sharpening their swords. Dick sits up and you embrace him tightly.

“Like the kind in  _Sleeping Beaut_ y?” Dick questioned into your neck. He pulled away to tease, ”With _true love’s kiss_?”

“Something like that.” You murmured distractedly, searching your lovers face for any lingering magical bindings. Now it was clear that Dick wasn’t as well as he should have been; his skin was pale and a little sweaty, and after he pulled off his sunglasses, you could see the aftermath of a mental fight in his eyes. Tenderly, you laid your palm over Dick’s forehead and allowed a glow of [color] to flare beneath it, ”Here.”

“Don’t waste your magic on me,” Dick whispered. But it was too late, as your powers had teased the color back into his skin, and now he looked more like the veil had made him out to be, than a man who had just been in a coma. It didn’t matter that you were now feeling tired, and your cheeks had lost their color. Dick was healthy and happy. That was all that mattered.

Dick let out a sigh at your actions, shaking his head. He began to speak as you straddled his waist and slid off the pod, ”What are we gonna tell the team, then? We can’t say that it was  _your_ kiss that woke me up.” Dick said it with a light smile.

“We’ll come up with something. Maybe—”

It was then that Wally crashed through the door, Conner, and M’gann in tow, soon followed by Batman and the rest of the team. M’gann grinned, ”You did it! I felt Nightwing’s conscience wake up from the mission room!”

“I thought you said the spell would take longer?” Barbara observes. She looked at you both skeptically.

“Klarion didn’t do the spell right, apparently,” you shrugged, smiling, ”Must have been in a panic. All I had to do was pull Nightwing out of his sleep with a different spell.”

“My  _favorite_ spell,” Nightwing flirted, glancing in your direction and winking beneath his sunglasses. You shook your head. Even if it was his idea to hide your relationship, especially to protect one another, he often acted like he didn’t care if anyone found out—like he wanted to scream it to the rooftops and to the world.

Conner spoke to Tim behind his hand, ”You’re sure they’re not dating?”

Tim did the same, shrugging, ”I have no idea, man."


	6. Pretty Bird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even off mission Dick never failed to call you by it. At first the team had taken it as a joke, but then Ollie called Dinah “pretty bird” and… You can still remember Wally’s teasing. You can still remember how Dick would say it so tenderly, so teasingly, whispered between the both of you like your own secret,”My little pretty bird.”

In all honesty, you wish that you had your phone on you. Or at least something to capture him like this. To capture this entire scene… Even if you grew up in Star City, seeing Gotham  _breathing_  and alive as the wind strokes your face is somehow euphoric. You breathe in that muddy city air, feel the splintered lights filter through Gotham’s cracks and stroke your skin, choke on the beauty that Nightwing adds to the scene and feel  _home_. Or maybe you just have a thing for big cities and prettier boys.

You can’t get over the feelings that start to surface. Immediately, you’re plunged back into those first months on the team, stuttering and blushing when Dick even breathes in your direction. You almost laugh; your situations did a complete 180. The last time you saw him you were caught up in a mission and didn’t get to speak much, but Dick managed to pull you aside in the aftermath. He was scratching his neck nervously and fluttering about like a startled bird. You didn’t remember the exact topic of the conversation. All you knew was that you did most of the talking while Dick covered the blushing and staring portion of the encounter. Somewhere towards the end he had choked out,”So… uh, what  _are_  we exactly? Relationship wise, I mean…”

“I don’t know,” You had confessed. The mission had left you winded and wounded, but being there with him… It made it all worth it. Between working as the hero known as  _Siren_  and partner to the great Black Canary, on-and-off missions with both the Justice League and their covert ops team, and graduating college and turning the page to a new chapter in your life, you had barely seen Dick Grayson—your first kiss, your first boyfriend, your first  _everything_. But you had seen first-hand how a relationship between vigilantes can affect futures. When Dinah and Ollie had first been working things out, you’d have to shove your earbuds in and hide in your room until things fizzled down. They loved each other. God, did you know that. But those arguments always weighed down on things and caused frequent breaks. You and Dick, legal adults at the time and still caught up in a never-ending honeymoon phase, didn’t want to go through that.

Dick wanted to focus on his family back home. Bruce had discovered he’d had a  _son_ , and an assassin one at that. You knew that he needed to be there. You knew what Bruce was like, and Dick knew what that boy needed—he needed someone like Dick, who could guide him,  _love_  him, in the same way he did with you.

You wanted to focus on school. The stress of a relationship, school, and vigilantism had rooted a constant tiredness in your being. You loved Dick. You knew that more clearly than anything, but Dinah and Ollie had both gone through other relationships. They knew the ropes. You and Dick were still figuring out how to share the reins. And being the anti-social person you were and still are, tending to your lover with affection was often like coercing a dying flower back to life. You couldn’t let those petals wilt. So when you offer a break—a break that you can and would come back to—Dick agreed.

Now… just being  _near_  him again makes your body a great, complicated elixir of emotions. You can’t pick the anxiety from the surprise, or the guilt from the love. It was all knotted together in a large lump in your throat. One of Dick’s many skills was untying this knot. Maybe it’s why you fell in love in the first place.

Nightwing sits on the edge of the clock-tower of Gotham’s Uptown District. He has a knee folded against his chest and an arm slung over it, the breeze deftly scattering his hair. To make matters worse, it wasn’t even getting in his face or in his mouth, but rather fluttering and dancing like Pocahontas. You had joked about Dick being a Disney Prince—emphasis on the  _“joked”_. He certainly had the charm for it. The infinite kindness, the pearly whites, the pretty hair and beautiful eyes. Was he perfect? Hell yes. Did you miss him? More than anything.

It’s odd. When you remember other things, like your 16th birthday or the first time you used your canary cry (or “siren song” as Roy had dubbed it) you can only pick apart certain images. Dinah’s sly  _Oliver-don’t-make-me-kick-your-ass_  face. Ollie laughing. Artemis elbowing your ribs with a grin. Roy tickling your sides. But with Dick you remember  _everything_. Every breath, every caress. Every beautiful, god-forsaken smile that you can’t get out of your head.

> **_SEVEN YEARS AGO_ **

“Get on my back,” Dick insisted, giggling. His shoulders shook with the mirthful harmony. With rolled-eyed reluctance, you clasped those shoulders and allowed your boyfriend to hook his hands beneath your thighs. You can feel him smiling when you lay your temple against his.

Artemis flick’s Wally’s Mickey Mouse ears back into place, and the teen bites on his tongue as he tries to get a good angle. Knowing Dick was too busy posing and looking at the camera (too many magazine photoshoots for Wayne Enterprises), smiling so handsomely, Artemis winked at you to confirm Wally was filming instead of taking photos.

You’d never admit it to anyone, but you were the sentimental type. You had a box under your bed in Ollie’s penthouse, filled to the brim with childhood memories and old keepsakes; your first costume, the black number dyed deeper with blood with a bullet hole still torn on the hip; the dilapidated tin-can held on an arrow, proving that, " _Yes, Oliver, I’m a perfect shot!”_ ; and the few love letters you had never worked up the courage to give to Dick, sitting, waiting patiently for either him to find or you to finally hand over. So it wasn’t a crime to want a video commemorating something special.

You laughed into Dick’s shoulder as he struck a dramatic pose. He dipped his head to kiss one of the loose arms around his shoulders. It had taken you a forever to even  _consider_ giving Dick those letters. Now, you were thankful you didn’t—they were filled with horrible lines, and all of them were gushing over how weak at the knees he made you—but this was a very different, almost  _dangerous_ kind of courage to try and amass. You imagined that being there in the moment would be when your anxiousness peaked, but now it all seems so silly.  _Do it_ , the Dinah within you screams.  _C’mon! I trained you for this!_

_If only_ , you thought. But you see your chance when Dick turns back to Wally’s phone, goofily jutting out his hip and flashing another daring smile. You realize that you, too, are smiling when you cup your hand against his ear and whisper for the first time, ”I love you, Dick Grayson.”

Dick doesn’t digest your words right away. But when their meaning slowly dissolves into his conscience, he almost drops you out of shock, choking on his own spit. You easily slip off his back and hit it in the perfect spot for him to regain control over his own lungs. He grins, clutching his throat and almost  _shaking_ with what could only be pure excitement and surprise.

When he grasps your shoulders, you have no chance to warn him that you’re in public—at Disneyland no less—before he’s diving in for a kiss you couldn’t refuse. It is instant, the way your arms wrap around him, gasping against his lips the second his slant against yours. It is smooth and unbroken like a resting pond, and with a shuddering breath that rattles the water, you pull him back into you. You taste the ice cream in his dumb smile.

“Damn it,” Dick curses, sharply inhaling and shaking his head; you’ve beaten him to the punch. Or in this case, the  _“I love you”_. His hands raise from your back and to your face. His eyes are such a beautiful shade of blue. A blissful blue, you decide, and those blissful blues are desperately trying to make you see the truth in his words when he says, ”I love you too, pretty bird.”

> **NOW**

“Pretty bird,” Nightwing smiles in greeting.

You shake yourself from the immersive memory, fighting back against the way the nickname makes you feel. As you leap from your perch on one of the clock-towers’ upper levels of roofing, Nightwing pushes himself to his feet. You don’t realize how fast you walk towards each other until you are already there.

“Uh, hey!” Dick said. He sounded awkwardly bubbly, like he was intensely glad to see you but trying to press the feeling down. He waves his arms and they pause briefly. You almost think he’s about to hug you until he doesn’t, and the reflexive introduction is wounding when not felt, so close yet so far away.

You plant your hands on your hips and smile up at him in return, ”Nightwing.”

There is a short, awkward pause in which you both examine each other’s faces, acting like you’re not and dismissing the longing in both of your gazes. You both take a final step towards each other and breath in the same relieved tone, ”It’s so good to see you—”

In an instant you laugh, and Dick watches endearingly as you clap a hand over your mouth and snicker. His hands keep momentarily lifting, that muscle reflex to embrace you, to kiss you in greeting so strong he can barely control it. He can feel himself getting better at hiding all these feelings from you. It was all just returning to how it was in the beginning, but now you were the calm and collected one, and Dick was the one begging his hand to stop reaching out for you and for his mind to stop envisioning you.

“You go first.” You encouraged. Before Dick could argue, you shushed his gentlemanly protest. He flashed that same loverboy grin. It didn’t waver when he looked over your civilian attire. You could  _see_ the questions buzzing about him, stinging him with memories and remorse and regret. The both of you were so strong, surely you could have made it through your situations at the time. Joker had lost to you, you had bested Lady Shiva, and together you had faced things and places very few people have.

_I’m sorry_ , Dick wanted to say, _I should have tried fighting harder for you. For us._

_I’m sorry_ , You whispered mentally, _I should have kissed you one last time._

“It’s so good to see you,” Dick breathed. His head shifted somewhere behind you, ”I… You look great. Pretty bird.”

You almost have to close your eyes at his words. After an incident involving your coms being hacked by an outside source and repeatedly using them against you, Aqualad, yourself, and Dick created a playbook of codenames for things to throw off that mystery eavesdropper until the problem was solved. That included words like “the enemy” being changed to “the nail”, and team members names altered to others. Namely, your  _Mockingbird_ had been changed to  _pretty bird_. Dick’s  _Robin_ to  _blackbird_. Even off mission Dick never failed to call you by it. At first the team had taken it as a joke, but then Ollie called Dinah “pretty bird” and… You can still remember Wally’s teasing. You can still remember how Dick would say it so tenderly, so teasingly, whispered between the both of you like your own secret,” _My little pretty bird_.”

“Thank you, Dick. You look great too.” And he did. He wore your favorite costume of his new alter-ego’s, the one with the blue finger-stripes that ran down his arms. But you had known him for so long… not only was he feeling awkward with the situation, but  _flattered_ at your words. So you couldn’t help but gently tease him by running the tips of your fingers against the blue track down his arm. Fondly, you whispered, ” _Finger-stripes._ ”

Dick flushed, but smiled and distractedly wiggled his two blue-colored fingers near your face, ”Finger-stripes.” He agreed.

Again, his grin quirked when you giggled and shook your head at him.

“But, uh, anyway… what are you doing in Gotham?” Dick asked. ”I mean, not that I don’t want you here! I definitely want you here. Trust me.”

“Yeah,” You forlornly cast your gaze to your feet, feeling the wind tousle your hair in a very non-Pocahontas like manner. While Dick was certainly a Disney Prince, you were no Disney Princess. You were like Dinah. You were a fighter, a bred and born one. And even if Dick was the same way, he was still a good man who didn’t  _want_ to fight with anyone. You did. Combing your hair out of your face, you sighed, ”I came to say goodbye, Dick.”

“What?” Dick tensed. His eyes narrowed beneath his mask as his lips parted, and this time, you saw his hand reach for your cheek. But he swiftly retracted it before it could make contact with your skin,”What do you mean ‘goodbye’? We still have so much to talk about!” Immediately, he scowled at himself and lightly pleaded, ”I-I… I miss you, Y/N. I haven’t stopped thinking about you lately and I—

“No, Dick,” You laughed awkwardly at his words, pausing him with your raised hands. He missed you. He  _thought_ about you. So you weren’t the only one. You blushed, and deeply, ”Batman assigned me to an undercover case. I’ll be in Bludhaven for the next six months, maybe more, because of it. I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean goodbye  _forever_. I just meant for now. I’m not going to be able to see you for a while…”

“Oh,” said Dick. Then he chuckled embarrassedly, ” _Oh_.”

You sighed softly. Your breath plumed in a cold cloud that disappeared somewhere around you, and you were starting to believe your jacket wasn’t enough to fight off the cold.”I miss you too,” You whispered shyly.

“You do?” Dick perked up.

You nodded, shifting on your feet. Now would be a good a time as ever. You’d been thinking it over for weeks now, feeling the gears of your mind grind against your anxieties and your dreams. And  _god_ , was Dick one of those dreams. He was  _the_ dream. How could you ever willingly let him slip through your fingers? Why didn’t you fight that battle with him? Why didn’t you fight it at all? The risk was well worth it. Stuffing your hands into your pockets, you looked over Gotham. It looked like the future and the past had been combined, fighting for reining dominance over the city. The crumbling remains of old cathedrals and aging gargoyles were winning against the glowing billboards and skyscrapers that truly scraped the sky.

“Of  _course_ I do, dummy,” You said reflexively, bunching your shoulders closer to yourself. These confrontations were what made you squirm, but it seems you were the only one around anymore willing to fight through them. Now, you are most certainly ready to fight for Dick Grayson. ”I always have…”

“Well, thank you then. For coming to see me,” Dick whispered. His hand did that nervous flutter again, reaching then retracting, the waves stretching for the shore but never quite reaching the land. Tired of his hesitance, you gingerly plucked his glove and brought it to your face. When the soft, rigid material of his digits feather against your skin, you release another sigh. It is much more content than the last. He smiled lightly,”How much time do you have?”

“I have to leave in an hour or two. And I still need to pack,” You admitted.

Dick scoffed and shook his head, bursting another series of giggles from the both of you. Again, you covered your mouth with your hand as your shoulders shook, and again, Dick observed your actions with his eyes glimmering beneath his mask. He gently brushed your palm from your lips and admired them. Your laughter slowed until you were just breathing. A soft paced melody of beating hearts and heavy minds. Somewhere in between you found your hand lying atop his.

“Alright then,” Dick breathed. You couldn’t tell with his mask on, but Dick’s eyes flicked from your own to your lips, back and forth, a game of debate and longing. He blushed deeply, ”Here’s what’s going to happen…”

“I’m gonna kiss you,” Dick said gently, loosely, readily, the same way his thumb brushed against your cheek, ”Then you’re going to go home, pack. And you’re going to be safe on this secret mission of yours.”

“I can only guarantee one of those, Grayson.” You hummed, gently stepping into his personal space. Dick welcomed the intrusion.

“Please say it’s your safety,” Dick whispered distractedly, your faces nearing.

“Aw,” You said. His lips were so plump, dimpled lightly in the center, and glistening under the moonlight like the glazing on a candy. Before your eyes fluttered shut, you smirked, ”You care.”

Dick pulled you in. It felt like any other kiss you’d ever had, with that smell of kevlar and masculine cologne filling your nose and surrounding you. His taste is sweet, sweet enough to hint that he probably drank a slushie or ate gum before patrol. It is so familiar. His kiss is a waterfall of memories and warmth and  _love_ that you bathe under.

It is once you break apart that you learn just how close you are. Dick’s eyes are close enough for you to see every freckle, every fleck, and every alternate hue of blue within his irises. You feel his other arm locked around your waist and discover your hand cradling the crook of his neck.

“Goodnight, pretty bird.”


	7. Radio Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barbara has heard the radio silence before.

Barbara has heard the radio silence before.

She hates how it’s almost  _familiar_ , familiar enough where her heart shorts out the same time as your com does. The bomb goes off. The world swells with heat and smoke, enveloping the little device and its person, shorting out with the rapid expansion of fire and debris. Paint curls in. Circuitry snaps, sparks and dies. An echo like a firework in a field bowls the microphone to paste. But that isn’t the worst part.

Dick’s voice is small. “ _No…_ ”

Tethered down by heartbreak and anchored by the thoughts she knows he’s having—my fault, my fault, my fault—he goes silent, the world goes silent, the sky’s breath of mourning against the steadily-building ripples of flame. Even without a visual, Barbara  _knows_ the team’s faces.

Zatanna goes pale, skin yellowed and aged by her grief in the embers reflections.

_

“Okay, so she’s my ex,” Dick shrugs.

His gauntlets skim down your wrists, thumbs grazing your knuckles through your uniform with shy care. “But you can still get along, right? I know you hate the cliche stuff, but Zatanna’s nice, and you  _know_ you’re always my first choice—don’t look at me like that. Besides, it’s just one mission. B probably wouldn’t have paired her with us if it wasn’t necessary.”

You guess the shyness is because he’s in uniform. But then that means that it’s not  _shyness_ , because Nightwing isn’t shy. He’s charming. He’s certainly serious. He’s flexible in the way that all unconventional rule-breakers are, with little secret thoughts, and little secret touches when (and where) they’re not allowed.

It’s bashful and sweet, but your smiles never fail to look mischievous, somehow. “I’ll be fine,” when the zeta doesn’t light up, you pull him forward by the wrist and press a noisy kiss to his cheek, “Though, I dunno, wonder boy. You weren’t exactly very nice to  _my_ ex.”

Dick’s eyes go wide behind his mask, mind reeling back the embarrassment of getting Sprite spilled down his frontlike a very heavy fish. He smiles, and it’s apologetic. “Well, that’s because you’re cooler than I am.”

“Big time,” you smirked, and crossed your arms, “And  _that’s_ because I don’t startle my date’s ex so hard that they spill Sprite down my pants.”

Dick scoffs, swirling an imaginary knob to forty percent, “Um, excuse me? I’d like to dial that  _because you’re cooler than me_ down to a  _because you’re_  almost  _cooler than me_ , thank you.”

You hold out your hand, arm still tucked in a lone cross while you’re still smirking him at him like that. He doesn’t back down regardless of how charming it is. He delivers the too-tempting low-five (and is not psyched, because you’re not  _that_ cruel) and is gifted with, “Fine. Deal.”

Dick huffs through his nose.  _Ha_ ,  _I win_ , he’s definitely about to say, but you press a finger to his lips before he can even open them.

“Back it up, Grayson, you haven’t won yet,” you chided. He doesn’t miss the way you slide your chest against his insignia, stepping into his personal space with the ease one would have stepped into their own bedroom.

“Oh?” Dick says. (It’s more of a mushed, “ _Mro?_ ”)

“Jokes on you,  _I_ still get a cool boyfriend—” You tapped him on the chest, and with an ironic amount of smugness, told him snootily, “and all  _you_ get is a stone cold loser!  _Ha!_ ”

Dick’s laughed filled his chest, and it almost echoes in the empty mountain. “Okay— _aha_ —I-I just wanna make sure, but  _you’re_ the loser, right?”

“Stone cold,” you nodded, closing your eyes and smiling as if to say,  _yep_ ,  _it’s the truth_.

Dick can’t take it anymore. Yeah, he’s a bat. Yeah, he’s got the best training in the world and if he  _wanted_ to hold back, he could do it so easily. But there’s one more thing about Dick Grayson that everyone should know; he’s a total sucker and is pretty good at inserting bad flirtations where they’re deserved.

Lithe hands pull you closer, and with as much warning as a person would really want when being surprise-kissed by Nightwing, you slant your lips against his and hope your little happy sigh isn’t too embarrassing.

“Don’t worry,” Dick says, and his hands slide up your spine to support you in a more gentlemanly way. Maybe it’s just him. Maybe it’s a trick of the light. Or maybe it’s all feeling and the veil of romance, but Dick is glowing, “You’re the best loser. Like,  _the_ best.”

Boots clip primly against the floor, and there’s Zatanna, leaning casually against one wall and smirking, “Oh my god. You two are  _made_ for each other.”

After twenty minutes, you and Zatanna had hugged twice, decided that you should braid her hair on the flight, and held hands more than you and Dick did in a week. You pointed to Zatanna and declared to him, through laughter, “I’m dumping you for her!”

Dick just shakes his head and starts the ship, smiling into the console like a love-sick loser.

_

Dick is weeping. Bawling, even, and someone won’t shut off the communications wire and Barbara can hear every plead and word and desperate cry that slips past his lips.

“Y/N was still in there,” Dick whispers. He shouts something, then there’s a commotion and the whole team is yelling and dragging him away from the fire, ten people trying to keep him from running in after you, a storm of sudden energy and struggle.

The struggle dies down when Conner and Cassie finally pin him. M’gann is put on a death confirmation, which is the worst job to have, but it’s hard because you have anti-telepathic training and just—it doesn’t really matter, because Dick is sobbing like a dying man. And he  _is_ dying. Or, at least he  _wants_ to.

_

The training room is silent, save for the melody of a ballet through worn speakers. For the last three times you’ve stepped through your routine he’s been sitting.  _Lurking_. It’s not the staring part that bothers you; he hasn’t said a damn thing, but the anger and frustration are still there. So the waiting game begins.

You’ll probably win. Dick’s got too much to say, even if it’s like him to keep it all smoothed down under the painted smile. He only gets angry when he’s worried. Which, frankly, is nearly every hour of every day, but he only gets  _really_ upset like this when he’s  _really_ worried. So you continue your dance and act like you know he isn’t there, waiting to see who will speak first.

Just when it feels like he’s left, like the air has gone dry with him gone, Dick’s voice comes into the light. It’s too gentle to not be forced, “You’re a wonderful dancer.”

“Thanks,” you said. You brought up your leg and dipped forward, fingers almost grazing the ground.

Dick watches you dance, desperate for a distraction when you know he wants to throw the speaker and yell until his throat starts screaming back at him. But he doesn’t. He settles back on his heels and observes, silent, which is almost worse. He’s steaming.

“I know you’re mad, Dick,” you finally sighed. Like he’d been waiting for it, his thumb jammed the pause button and his arms crossed. He loosened up when you half-flinched.

“I  _am_ ,” Dick said. It was a slice of words across the suddenly hollow air. He had his mask on, but even so his glare was hot against your own. Looking at him in the mask was trying to stare down a brick wall.

Why wouldn’t he just  _talk?_ Sure, he was allowed to be frustrated and upset just like any other person, but if he wanted the problem solved he could at least talk to you. The riverbed of your tears had looked more like a skatepark after the ice-age Dick called a cold shoulder. You leap into the line of fire for him—so what if the fire leaped back? So what if you went a little off-order? Dick was safe and the mission had been completed. What was the point of arguing, then?

You untied the last knot on your ballet shoes, “Would you like to talk about it?”

Dick tapped his foot.

Figuring that it meant a  _yes_ ,  _but I’m not going to say it because I’m too proud_ , you gently brushed Dick’s hand off the stereo and turned it back on. “Fine. But I’m only talking if we’re dancing—and you’re gonna talk, too. Not just me.”

Oh, so maybe it didn’t take much to make him smile; the corner of his lip gave, and he held out his hand and pulled you closer. “Okay.”

Instantly, you pulled him into the first swell of music and pressed, “You first.”

“Trying to get me to talk, huh?” Dick asked. He tried to smile again, but it was more frustrated than anything else.

There was a pointed roll of shoulders as the music dwindled into a steady staccato of flutes. You were just close enough where Dick would have to pull back to see your face all the way, but he never ended up falling through with it and instead spoke to your cheek.

“You know what I’m going to say.”

“Not really,” you laughed humorlessly. “When you  _are_ mad at me you never tell me anything. You just… disappear for a couple days and resurface like nothing happened. I don’t like it.”

“I don’t  _want_ to be mad at you, but you—but you—” Dick shook his head violently, like trying to work water out of his hair or wish away a bad thought. “You just…  _threw_ yourself in front of me, when all of that wasn’t necessary—I had a plan and everything, but you didn’t listen, and most importantly… you didn’t  _trust_ me. Do you know how pissed off that makes me? You could’ve  _died_ —”

You braced your hands against his chest, trying to quell the rise in his voice. “I  _know_. But why  _should_ I trust you?”

Dick stepped back like he’d been slapped in the face.

Arms crossing, you immediately folded in on yourself, “You’re a self-sacrificial  _idiot_. This isn’t the first time you’ve left us out of your plans only for it to end with you almost dying or something—and  _willingly_. If you had told me everything and trusted  _me…_ Well, I would still do it. I will always do it. Besides, you’re more important to the team and you have a family to go home to—”

“What?” Dick blurts, incredulous. “ _What?_ ” He asks again, more forceful, squeezing your shoulders hard enough to startle, “And  _you’re_ not important to the team? You have no one to come home to? No one who cares about you if you die? What the hell, Y/N? What the hell—?”

You pulled in a sharp breath, rubbing the heels of your palms into your eyes and shaking your head. “I don’t want to outlive you, Dick. It’s selfish, but… I can’t outlive you. I just  _can’t_.”

He’s still furious. It’s burning off him so hard that you pity whoever runs into him on patrol tonight, if he even goes. He seems suddenly more inclined to stay here. Which is  _huge_. You had both silently agreed that the mission would always come first in your relationship. It was a given, something that simply couldn’t change, and the fact that Dick wanted to break that boundary was both worrying and overwhelmingly sweet.

Dick pulls in a shaky little inhale. You only hear it because he’s hugging you, hard and tight and bone-deep, his nose pressed into the curve of your neck and his eyes shut tight. “Me too.”

_

Watching Dick cry is just… it’s  _more_ than unusual. Barbara had only seen him cry once, but the noise alone is worse; she shuts off his com as a result. He wasn’t the kind of guy who outright  _refused_ to cry because of some whole manliness thing, but because he didn’t want to expose others to the tears. It was something to be thankful for. His tears were contagious… The type that you simply  _couldn’t_ ignore, because seeing Dick cry was like watching a star collapse in on itself.

“I… I can’t find a body,” M’Gann says, and her voice is distant and quivering.

The reply, to everyone’s surprise, comes from Tim. “Isn’t that a good thing?”

Barbara pulls off her glasses, scrubbing her face beneath them until there are stars in her eyes and mascara crumbling on her fingers. Tim is being hopeful instead of rational. M’Gann’s powers have reached their fault. Dick is  _crying_ , and Barbara hates to think it, but the only truth left is that the world is falling apart. Silly, how one person can change that much.

But this is  _you_ they’re talking about. You’ve always changed things, always made things better.

Conner breathes a soft, “Holy shit.” And Barbara knows.

The cacophony that follows is confusing, a mess of noise and upbeat whooping and cheer, somebody says something about a doctor and someone else mentions your name, another person hushes the group and there are  _more_ tears, but good tears, and Dick’s com is handed off to another voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” you said, panting heavy like you’d ran a mile, “Ran into a bit of a problem, but I’m okay now. And—hey! Tim, you stone cold bitch, you should be  _sobbing!_ I was dead for like, ten minutes for you guys.”

There’s gagging and some polite laughter, which probably means Dick has roped you in for a kiss or something else gross and sweet, and the hang on the end of the com isn’t a dive off a cliff but a bridge over an abyss. Barbara relaxes in her chair. Hears Dick laugh, wipe the tears off his face. And she laughs.


	8. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dick Grayson jealous over the friendship between Jason and super! reader? Thanks! Love your blog!"

“Dick.”

“Hm.”

“ _Dick_.”

“Yeah.”

“Are you listening?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Really?”

“Sure.”

Hands, impossibly gentle, the barest touch that could possibly be given, slip down and around Dick’s neck. “Baby,” the hands call, folding in the valley of his chest.

Dick’s lost in thought and doesn’t give another answer. Your voice kisses the shell of his ear, “sunrise,” you say once, then thrice in Kryptonian as you nuzzle pecks across his shoulder.

The Kryptonian word is a foreign sound, an oddity that drags him back into the real world. It’s murmured against Dick’s skin several more times until you feel properly listened to. He blushes hard at the affection; he’s never been all that good at receiving it, though he’s been declared a dedicated giver. Dick has always thought that you crest a whole other level.

“Yeah, sorry,” Dick says, smiling light, “Just thinking.”

“About how Jason and I escaped off to the garden to hang out without you?” You guessed. “Actually, funny story: we left the party, eloped in Spain, had twelve kids and raised them on the moon. Normal friends stuff.”

Dick’s blush evaporates and he sighs, pointed, “I’m  _not_ jealous, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“That’s exactly what a jealous person would say in this situation,” you smirked. Gentle fingers brush through his curls, realize how unnecessarily warm he is, and start pressing cool frost-blessed kisses along his brow.

“Stop it,” Dick huffs. He sounds like he’s talking about the jealousy thing, but actually pushes your glasses further up your nose. “Keep using your powers like that and you’ll get caught.”

“Don’t change the subject,” you said. Turning completely so you could squeeze between Dick’s desk and his lap, you half-sat on his thigh and snickered against his shoulder, “And besides, I’m used to scandalizing old people.  _Especially_ old cops.”

Dick rolled his eyes fondly. At the same time, he shyly waved at a fellow detective as she gushed over them. “I’m not inviting you to the precinct for lunch tomorrow, just f-y-i.”

“And I’m not dating you anymore because you said  _f-y-i_ out loud.” Punctuating the thought with a cheek-kiss, you drew back so you could smile at him, “It’s okay to be jealous, Dick. Just know you don’t have to be. Jason’s just been my idiot since we were on the Titans together, and I’m used to him running off and needing to be saved. You’re much more independent.”

“I’m not jealous. But if I  _was_ …” he spoke, “…I’d say that you’re just—unreal.”

“That a good thing?” You adjusted your glasses a bit.

Dick made sure not many were looking, before stealing a kiss and shooing you off his lap to drape your coat over your shoulders. “The best.”

(He was totally inviting you to lunch tomorrow).


End file.
